


In my drawer lies a stack of letters (yellow and wrinkled with the seals snapped open)

by gabrielgoodman



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8013082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielgoodman/pseuds/gabrielgoodman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Soulmate au where when you write something on your skin with pen/marker/whatever the hell you want, it will show up on your soul mates skin as well. "</p><p>Aaron has alternating spots of spilled ink on different places of his body almost everyday and his fingertips are stained with ink constantly, whereas Alexander almost never has any marks and wonders why, wonders if his soulmate doesn't care about him or just doesn't know. And that's fine, really, it happens. But one day Aaron wakes up and there's a poem written on the insides of his hands and arms; it's about a hurricane and devastation and pain and anger and then, then he meets Alexander Hamilton and when they shake hands he sees the same stains of spilled ink on the tip of Alex's fingers as there are on his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. “my god,” he gasped, “you’re fun to kiss."

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a Tumblr text post, this is exactly what it says in the summary; all credit for the idea goes to Tumblr user let-gavin-free.
> 
> I will post various snippets of the story as I am just absolutely unable to finish a coherent piece of fiction which is shorter than, let's say, 50k words without abandoning it halfway in. This works just the best for me and I just loved this particular idea of a Hamburr soulmate alternate universe way too much to let it slide, I mean, who doesn't love Alexander Hamilton's handwriting on his arms and fingers, even his neck, on the day of an important interview? I bet Burr does. But not yet, not yet, you will find out soon-ish. Just you wait.
> 
> Disclaimer as usual: This is a work of fiction, I do not own any of those characters and no profit is made with this work of fiction. The characters looks like the cast of Hamilton, obviously (duh). Tags and rating will be updated as we go. And last but not least, you know the drill, it isn’t beta’d or anything and I’m no native speaker so there might be a few grammar, syntax or spelling mistakes. Feel free to adopt and take care of them.
> 
> Title: “papier de paris” - l.r

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Kiss.
> 
> Title: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is The Night

It's a small town. The houses, nestled next to each other, look all the same: the same gardens, the same front porches, the same doors, the same windows, the same steps. The streets, tight, are winding their way through the labyrinth of store fronts, houses and shops like veins of a river bled dry, and Aaron questions his sanity and his decision to come here at all again. But then his eyes fall onto the tips of his fingers, clutching at the steering wheel, and the ink stains there and he  _remembers._ That's why he's here, right. 

When he parks in front of the address Alexander gave him his eyebrows shoot upwards. The venue can't be described as anything else than a community Theater, the steps leading upwards to the old fashioned ticket booth and seemingly new door are wooden and used, the glass of the windows in the front plastered with posters advertising the current and soon-to-be productions. Right now they are playing Twelfth Night (a classic, Aaron approves) and rehearsing for a self-written play. At least that's what Aaron gathers from the information scribbled (handwritten) at the bottom of the paper. 

He glances at the two coffees and the paper bag sitting in his passenger seat, arguing with himself if he really should go in there but then again he came all the way out of the city just to meet Alexander and he didn't waste all this gas for nothing. It's no question that all the other people in there will immediately recognize Aaron as what he is because the ink on his fingers and hands, as well as the new spot on his cheek, betray him easily. Aaron can't remember a day without any stains on his skin anymore. Maybe it doesn't even exist

Surprisingly, the door isn't locked and gives in with a creak which causes Aaron to cringe. There's no one in the lobby but he can hear voices from what he assumes to be the stage and so he just goes into the direction of the noise, following the different pitches and tones like they are breadcrumbs. 

Aaron silently sneaks in and the scene he's faced with brings back memories from his high school days - various people are scattered in the plush seats normally reserved for the audience, a few are on stage right now and others are sitting on the floor in front of the stage cutting fabric and he smiles despite himself, because is it even community theater if you don't sew your own costumes and make your own props? 

He steps further into the room, looking out for the familiar small figure and dark hair and soon enough he sees Alexander in a middle row, further behind than all of the others, intently following the action on stage, a script in his hands. Ink stains on his fingertips, of course.

Aaron hovers in the corridor awkwardly, trying to make up his mind. Should he just interrupt Alex or should he wait? He should probably wait. Maybe Alex is reading something important, something for his classes or for another blog entry - not that that's something Aaron considers important but he knows that Alexander thinks of it as  _highly_ important - and doesn't want to be interrupted. 

"Hey, so, do you wanna keep on standing there or do you want to let me pass, because I kinda really, uh, have to take a piss." 

Aaron fucking  _jumps._

The kid who can't be any older than 17 cocks an eyebrow, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, waiting for Aaron to move. Right. His hair is up in a high bun hastily arranged on his head and he has a lot of freckles and looks a lot like Laurens. Does Laurens have a younger brother? Maybe. Who's Aaron even to know about these things?

"Oh Aaron!" Now Alex notices him and Aaron feels the heat creeping up his neck. Great. That's really the situation he likes to be in.

"Aaron?" realization dawns on the kid's face like the morning sun, "you're the guy Alexander can't shut up about?"

"Uh .... Apparently?"

Alex rushes through the cramped space of the aisle, almost stumbling over a forgotten water bottle in the progress, a smile on his face that knocks the wind out of Aaron's traitor lungs.

"Aaron! You didn't tell me you'd come!" Alex positively  _beams_ and the thought that Aaron's responsible for this forms in his mind like a whirlwind and it's strange, a new sensation entirely.

"Uhm," he says, "I brought you coffee?" and holds up the paper tray, "and something to eat."

The kid's gaze falls onto the tips of his fingers, "I see," and he pushes past Aaron to get where he wants to go. 

"Oh, don't mind Romeo, he's like super moody because of high school. And I think his girlfriend dumped him? Found her soulmate or something like that, kinda pisses him off because he's still waiting for it to happen. I told him to maybe reach out but he waved it off, so I don't know, maybe it isn't that serious to him? Maybe it's just the dumping that rubs him off wrong," Alex says and takes the coffee cup with his name written and takes a sip, "That's really good, what is it?"

Aaron might just crumble into a heap of dust onto the floor as he responds, "Pumpkin Spice Latte," and hastily adds, "Theo enjoys it and I thought you might like it too. You once wrote your Starbucks order on my arm and I kinda ... remembered ..." 

Alex looks at him like he  _knows_  that there's in fact a photo, that captured those lines on Aaron's arm before they could fade away, in one of Aaron's drawers.

"Thank you," Alex says. His voice is so sincere, it takes Aaron off guard. The guy is really not used to any displays of affection or generosities. Huh.  

"Hey, do you want to come and sit down? There's plenty of empty seats in my row and because it's you, you can even sit next to me," Hamilton says and looks up at him. He likes their height difference, likes how Alex has to raise his chin so he can look Aaron in the eyes, likes the way Alex would have to stand on the tip of his toes to kiss him; the scene plays out in his head. It's a nice idea. Aaron likes the thought.

"Sure." He shrugs and follows Alexander down the row of seats to where he sat before Aaron came into the room. There are single pages scattered on the floor and  a messenger bag is on the place on Alex' right, a used MacBook lays on the floor with the display lit; something is written on the screen but Aaron can't make out what it is and he frankly he doesn't care enough to find out. 

They sit down next to each other and Alexander shuffles around until he can rest his legs on Aaron's thighs as if it's the most normal thing in the world and if Aaron's honest he can't complain – the physical contact is nice and welcome and they fit together so well – so he lets his hands rest on Alex' thighs, which the other uses as an invitation to intertwine their fingers, dark brown and tanned next to each other with matching ink stains. As he contemplates the sight Aaron finally realises what's the thing about soulmates, what all the fuss is about; he's warm all over, especially where Hamilton is touching him, familiarity running through his veins like it belongs there.

Alex  _hums._

He's got a nice voice. Unusual but with enough natural talent that it's not unpleasant; maybe it's just the soulmate-thing speaking. 

"So, what are you rehearsing right now?"  he asks after a while of following the action on stage. It's definitely not Twelfth Night, Aaron would have recognized any scene by now, he got an old and battered copy resting forgotten on his bed-side table and in eleventh grade he used to write different quotes on his arms and hands, wondering if his soulmate would recognize the references. 

He wonders if Alex knows. Or, for a lack of phrase,  _remembers._

"It's our newest production, a piece on the Watergate affair told from the view of journalists Woodward and Bernstein. It's all set in one night when they meet up with  Mark Felt and get all the dirt on the affair, right now they're in Woodward's office, I think, the night only started so still in Act one," Alex muses and fishes a piece of paper from the floor, scanning it, eyebrows furrowing. 

"Uh." Aaron knows just enough about the Cold War politics to be familiar with the subject and he knows who Woodward and Bernstein are, but he has no clue who Mark Felt is. The name rings a few bells, though, "Mark Felt is .... who?" 

He doesn't want to seem like he's dumb but his high school didn't really cover the subject.

"Deep Throat, the first whistleblower." Alex says and looks at him like Aaron's an idiot. An idiot he's fond of but still an idiot. 

Aaron tries not to be offended, caressing the back of Alex' hand instead; the skin there is soft, stark contrast to the rough tips of Alexander's fingers. 

Alex wears braces for  _both_  his wrists.

"Ah, right. I remember. Who wrote it, I never heard about it before, I mean, I know that there's a movie," Aaron says, thinking of the poster on the front.

"I wrote it," Alex simply says. He's ducking his head and Aaron is not used to this kind of behavior coming from Alexander Hamilton, out of all the people he knows. It's  _cute_.

Aaron lifts Alex' chin with his fingers, "It's amazing." He could kiss him right now. The thought crosses his mind out of the blue, they're so close, he could just lean in and close the gap and there's that smudge of black ink on Alex' cheek and he forgot about it but now he sees it again and it reminds him of what they  _are_ and he could  _kiss Alexander right now._

"Thank you," Alex whispers and his eyes are flicking between Aaron's own and Aaron's mouth. It's captivating.

Aaron feels like they are wrapped up in a bubble of warmth, a world of their own, and so he leans in and captures Alex' lips in a soft kiss.   
  
Alex gasps, a high sound in the back of his throat that does  _things_ to Aaron, and pushes back, pressing his mouth more intently onto Aaron's, his unoccupied hand grabbing the back of Aaron's neck, getting him closer and Aaron understands because he feels like he wants to crawl under Alex' skin and stay there and maybe Alex feels the same. His hand is warm on Aaron's skin. His eyes are closed.  
  
They keep kissing, Alexander's nose bumping into his own multiple times but only because they can't get enough of each other, _Jesus Christ,_ Aaron never thought that anything involving Alexander Hamilton could be as pleasing, as wholesome, as this but it is, and as everything involving Alexander Hamilton it's intense, impatient, swallowing him up whole and leaving no room to think, only to _feel_. When they part, Alex chases the taste.  
  
"That was. That was nice."   
  
Aaron's voice is so hoarse.

And Alex smiles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That play about the Watergate affair doesn't exist (except for in my head). It's a cool topic, though.


	2. "you killed something," he said, "and you killed it when its back was turned."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's trouble in the air, you can smell it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Affair.
> 
> Title: David Levithan, The Lover's Dictionary

_There's nothing like summer in the city_ , Aaron thinks grimly as he walks down the street to their shared apartment. For once in his life he really wishes for the kind of small town retreat Alex used to prefer on days or weeks like these, before he met Aaron – spending the afternoon at the lake, lounging around in the lazy heat – because the towering skyscrapers and driving cars are only making it worse by polluting the air and trapping the warmth in between them and that's _gross_ , Aaron decides, as he notices how his shirt clings to him.

There haven't been a lot of summers that he spent out of the city, to be honest. His grandparents had a townhouse in Upper Manhattan, a beautiful and ancient building which was cold on the inside but burning whenever you took more than a step outside, the backyard something that resembled Aaron's vivid imagination of purgatory, and he spent every minute of every day in it until he had been old enough to move out and start college and then law school and somewhere on the way he met Alexander, out of all the people, and he really thought it would take years for them to find each other but somehow they literally stumbled into another.

He never thought he would make it out of that townhouse alive.

When he opens the door his gaze lands on the fading note on his arm automatically, by now it's just a habit, the _I love you_ already losing color, bright white (because Alex loves the contrast) a gleaming silver and Aaron smiles, unintentionally, remembering that there's a matching set of inked words on the palm of Alexander's left hand. Permanently.

Usually, Aaron isn't someone to bring work back home but today he didn't have another chance; it's Friday, too much going on in the library that makes it impossible for him to work efficiently and he has to finish an essay which is due to Monday, and he really doesn't have the desire to do any not-absolutely-necessary work on Saturday or Sunday. It's entirely and undeniably too hot for that. Also, he promised Alexander to go visit the lake outside of the city. The date is still somewhere between his ribs.

Aaron's someone who doesn't work late, too, usually, but by the time he has most of his work finished with only minuscule editing left it's way past 1 am and he yawns, stretching himself and cracking his neck, checking his mobile phone for any missed messages. There's one from Theo, asking him how it's going and he shoots back a short text filled with thumb-up emojis that should convey his work state perfectly, before standing up and heading to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

He wonders where Alex is.

The lack of text messages isn't disturbing or uncommon; his boyfriend gets immersed in whatever he's writing at the moment easily and he told Aaron that he would be home late anyway, still having something to finish for Washington, parting ways in front of their professor's office after kissing him on the lips to head in there and do whatever he needed to do.

It's only when he catches sight of himself in the mirror above the sink that his world halts abruptly, _freezes,_ and for a moment he has to remember how to breathe.

There's a red stain on his face; he recognizes the texture immediately (Lipstick, Jesus Christ, _Lipstick_ , _Lipstick_ can only mean one thing don't think about it do _n't think about it don't think about it_ ) and tries to rub it off but its unforgiving, a mark like the others smeared onto dark skin and everything starts to spin, suddenly, the lights too bright, the walls closing in, and, fuck, how do you breathe again, how do you do it, how – how –

Darkness. Creeping in.

Aaron sees without actually _seeing._

 _(Redredredredredredredredredredred,_ a voice in his head chants over and over again, terribly grotesque, _redredredredredredredredredredredredredredred,_ it says and it's too loud, everything is too loud, something is slipping through his fingers like quick sand and he can't really remember what time or day it is, he stumbles, the sheets are so cold under his trembling fingers, _redredredredredredred, everything is red_ , why is it so wet here, does he cry? When did he start to cry, he doesn't know why, he tries to remember but he can't come up with a logical explanation because there is none, nothing makes sense only _redredredredredred_ everywhere _redredredred)_

He feels numb for a long time. He tries to wash the lipstick stains off his face, the obscene contrast of the red against his dark skin, but it's all in vain; if Alexander doesn't want it off he will have to carry it around for the next hours or at least until it will be removed, however long it might take. He avoids all the mirrors in every room and when he spots his reflection in a glass it slides out of his cold fingers and shatters on the floor into a million tiny pieces, glistening in the warm light of the kitchen isle like it's mocking him, like it wants to remind him of what his life has become. He sleeps restless, eyes red-rimmed and heavy, and the light summer breeze from the open window isn't enough to free his lungs as he's choking on the tears and the weight on his chest, like a dead man drowning in the open sea and there's nothing else, just miles and miles of water.

Then, there's anger. 

Alexander comes back around 7 in the morning and Aaron's already awake, fingers darkened by the usual spots of ink, his fingertips not ebony but jet black. Though, at least, the lipstick stain is gone and Alex is smiling, warm and open just like he does every morning when they're  _waking up next to each other_ and bile rises in Aaron's throat, acid burning its way up, so he bites his lip and breaths through his nose.

He can do this. If not him, who else?

 _Control,_ he reminds himself,  _is important._  There's a reason why he never scrawled words all over his body like most people except for that brief period in high school, there's a reason why he finished College early, there's a reason why he's where he is today. Control. Control is the only thing he's got going for him, unlike Alexander, Hurricane Mind and Whirlwind Tongue and he loves those things, used to, but right now he wants to burn them off his skin, every trace of ink a filthy reminder.

"Hey babe," Alex greets while he's still in the hallway, more testing than anything else because he can't know that Aaron's already up because Aaron, except for him, has been almost embarrassingly careful. Avoided any kind of ink or color while he was walking on shattered glass through their shared space. He wants it all  _gone_.

"How dare you –" he breathes out through gritted teeth but shuts his mouth with a click that echoes in the emptiness of the room. Or his chest? He can't be too sure.  _Control_ , that's important. Breathe; inhale, exhale.

Aaron can tell the exact moment Alexander spots him by the way the his body freezes immediately and his bag drops out of his lax, uncurling fingers.

"You're already up? I didn't – I didn't think you would be. It's Saturday after all," Alexander says and smiles but it looks like it must be hurting his face, the most insignificant amount of teeth in there, the right corner of his mouth stretched thin; a grimace.

"No, you didn't think." Aaron decides, hands creasing the fabric of his pants where they are gripping tightly, knuckles white. Alexander furrows his brows, the expression so absurdly familiar and out of place right here, right now, in this moment, it's almost comical, really, his natural talent to be out of place even in his home, the rooms he has spent the last few years in.

Or has he? Aaron's not too sure anymore. All he knows is pain and anger, hot and bright behind his eyelids, searing through his eyeballs with the intensity and settling right beneath bone tissue, deep enough to leave a mark. He doesn't like marks. He never left those. Not such  _permanent_  ones.

Alexander is still frozen in the doorway to their living room, stillness stark contrast to his usual behavior. 

Aaron is still sitting on their couch, picture perfect except for the tension in his shoulders and his heavy breathing but that's alright. Just fine. He can arrange himself with those imperfections, he's with Alex after all.

Is. Is? 

"Are you ... Are you," Alex shifts his weight onto the other foot, a nervous habit, "alright babe?"

Aaron laughs, mirthless and without any joy, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Alex flinch. Good. 

"That's rich, coming from you," he says, dry as the pavement on the streets, "or, I don't know, you maybe should have asked me when I looked in the mirror last night and saw a bright red stain on my face that I couldn't get rid off." 

Aaron might has well slapped Alexander across the face, given the impact of his words and his fingers twitch at the thought but he presses blunt nails into the skin of his palm, the pain a white sensation in his veins, much more pleasant than the fog in his head. Or is it fog? By now it could be a thunderstorm.

"Or, you know, when I laid in bed shivering wrapped in every blanket we have,"  _even yours,_ but he doesn't say that, "because, suddenly, your warmth was gone and everything was just cold."

He heard of that too, read about it in textbooks in High School, what happens to soulmates when one of them fucks up:  _It might feel as if the room temperature dropped but that isn't the case,_ he read there,  _the connection between two subjects who identify as soulmates is one that feeds off the well-being of its subjects in their assigned relationship and when one of them harms the other in any way, conscious or unconscious, this connection is in danger and thus the warmth that usually surrounds them is replaced by cold. Scientists still have to figure out why._

Bullshit, he used to think.

It isn't, he knows now.

_Control._

His hands are so cold.

"Aaron, let me explain – "

Alex is desperate. He feels it because it's in the air and the smell lingers and he has spent more than enough time to notice the signs and read them, he's not stupid, he used to think of an forever, he  _dared_  to think of an _until death do us apart_ after all that he's been through, Alexander brought the hope back and the laughter, he brought colour, literally and figuratively, and he brought the warmth that left Aaron when he was still too young to understand what it meant. 

He can't remember what they've written about the  _After_ in those textbooks.

He hates Alexander for taking it all away. For being so careless. For the betrayal.

"I don't think that there's anything worth explaining. You made a choice and I have to live with it," he says and then narrows his eyes, sharpening his gaze, "I don't want to hear it."

Alex furrows his brows. Confused. "What?"

Of course he wouldn't understand, of course, because for him everything is words and being heard, words that have been written, words that have to be written, words to read, but most importantly, words he has spoken himself and their impact on whoever is at the end of the line. Alexander fights with words and Aaron doesn't.

_Talk less, smile more._

Their first meeting seems years away, decades even. It's only been five.

"Whatever you have to say, I don't want to hear it," he repeats.

"Aaron, babe, please, let me explain, it's not what you think it is!" Alexander pleads, eyes feverish, so determined all the goddamn time, even now. Especially now. Aaron wants to burn that look off his face.

"Then what is it, Alexander?" he asks, "And think before you answer." His breath catches in his throat, "Think."

Alex falters and deepens the crease between his brows by furrowing them even more ( _because he doesn't understand_ ) and leans onto the door frame for support, even though Aaron should be the one who is in need of someone holding him up -- maybe he is, he's not too sure. 

"I – I don't think I understand what you mean." 

At least he's honest. 

"I guess so," Aaron says, horribly hollow. There's nothing left in his rib cage to fill the empty spaces, "Go."

"What – ? No, Aaron please!" Alexander is livid now, arms thrown up into the air, which gives him the impression of a caricature gone very wrong but that could be only Aaron's twisted point of view. He used to admire those fits of passion. 

"You heard me," Aaron says through gritted teeth, slow and steady like his Grandfather taught him, "Go away. Please." 

Glaring, Alex huffs out a puff of breath and Aaron can't believe that even in this situation he thinks himself in the right position to do such things as if  _he_ is the one overlooked and overstepped – a problem Alexander knows all too well and hates more than he would ever admit – when it's Aaron who got kicked into the dirt, when it's Aaron who has the  _right_ to be hurt, when it's Aaron who's clearly, because history repeats itself, doesn't it?, the victim here, the one who got cheated on, the one who tastes the bitterness of betrayal on his tongue. 

Being right never felt so wrong.

"Fine, I'll go. But Aaron, please, we can fix this! Just – hear me out, please." 

For the first time in his life Aaron doesn't have enough patience for that. 

He stands up and retreats back into their shared bedroom, opening the drawers of their wardrobe to get Alexander's neatly folded clothes and the duffel bag Laurens gave him for his last birthday, because Aaron told him so, out and afterwards he goes into the bathroom to get the toothbrush, the razor and the aftershave  that don't belong him as well, and then he packs these things into the bag. It should be cleansing, some kind of exorcism. It isn't. He only feels empty, like a shell.

When he goes back into the living room Alexander's briefcase is still there but there's no sight of the man himself which means that he must be in the kitchen then, there aren't any more rooms in their apartment and it's the only place where they have had enough storage to put all of their books onto a shelf, anyway. Aaron knows him well enough to figure out what he's doing in there.

The I love You on the back of his arm is gone. He can't see the lines anymore. Maybe it's for the better.

"I'm going but I'm not moving out, not yet," Alexander is saying as he steps back into the living room with an armful of books. 

Aaron doesn't move. 

"Here, I packed the most necessary things in there. Please go now."

Aaron can't believe that Alex wouldn't see his wrongs. Or maybe he does. It's so typical, though it used to be an advantage, another trait Aaron would complement with his own need for harmony. He really should have known better, shouldn't he? 

Now all that's left is the proof that love's not only blind but deaf.

"Okay, Aaron, I'll go. I'm going now," Alexander states and drops the books into the open bag, closing it without checking if everything useful and important is really in there because he still trusts Aaron enough to avoid questioning him or his abilities, like he used to do in the first years. It took a long time until he came around but eventually he did. Eventually he could arrange himself with the idea of equality in a relationship.  _Their_  relationship. The soulmate thing.

Then, finally, there's pain. Emptiness. It's all the same.

There's no sound of the door clicking shut or maybe there is and Aaron's just too far to notice, no sign, despite the quite obvious  _absence,_ that Alexander is really gone and he should be glad about that, too, probably, but he doesn't know how as the sky threatens to fall down like the Earth he's carrying on his shoulders, and, ah, here it comes, the great, ultimate feeling of being hurt and utterly betrayed. The filth on his skin so darkdarkdark and endless and only then he realizes that Alexander didn't even apologize and it's his heart in an iron grip and how is he supposed to  _breathe_  like  _that_  –  

A week passes. He finishes his essay. He ignores all of Alex' attempts to contact him because, no, not yet, the wound in his chest is still fresh and open and any touch would infect the blood and tender skin, any complications would hold up the process of healing which he can't allow to happen because he wants to be whole again, he wants to be whole, he wants to be whole again – –

Another week passes.

Theo offers him a place to sleep when she notices the deep circles under his eyes and Aaron doesn't have the heart to tell her that it's not because he sleeps in the same bed but because it's so cold that it's impossible to catch a full night of rest without nightmares. Though, he declines her generous offer, if only because he has the opportunity to do so. Angelica treats him like he's fragile and he doesn't wonder how she knows; apparently it's no secret anymore. Apparently Alexander told someone, probably Laurens or Mulligan, for all Aaron knows, and their pitying glances follow him to the edge of his dreams until he wakes up in cold sweat, shirt sticking to his back. Even Eliza worries about him enough to offer him snacks when they're in the library together; it's not very often but only for the sole reason of Aaron avoiding that particular part of campus like it's poisonous. 

Besides the summer heat in the streets his hands shake all the time. 

On the 15th day After, a Sunday, the words start to appear on his skin. First it's an ugly scrawl Aaron can't even decipher, a mockery of a handwriting known like the back of his hand, on top of that the ink is black which doesn't make it any easier but as the words, always the same, repeat each other on different places of his body – up his right arm, then his shoulder and the hollow of his throat, his stomach, his left arm and hand, more scribbled lines than letters and he knows why, down his thighs and over his knees, even his ankles, between his fingers and the light skin of his palm – he recognizes them:

_I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY_

Again and again and again and again and again; his body a canvas, the words a piece of art burning into his skin, a dirty prayer for the betrayed, a cheap beg for  _forgiveness_.

Sorry's not good enough. 

The words don't fade. Every time they're about to, the lines sharpen and it makes him sick, so sick that at one point, on the 16th day, he has to excuse himself to the bathroom to dry heave into a toilet bowl but there's nothing, only acid, because he can't eat whenever his eyes take note of the words, everything feels so  _wrong._

They don't visit the lake.

Hate flows so easily.

       If he could only  _hate._

 

 

The bed is still cold. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was extraordinarily hard to write and describe Aaron's anger as, in my opinion, he isn't someone who flips immediately (in the play it took him about 2 hours and 35 minutes or roughly 30 years), so I took this route; I hope you're satisfied.
> 
> I don't have any idea how the American School System works and I wrote this without any internet connection whatsoever so bear with me. I would have done more research but alas and, as we speak, I am uploading this story via my phone hotspot. Being an adult is tough, sometimes.
> 
> There's an Arctic Monkeys reference in here. If you find it, good for you.
> 
> Thank you for all your kudos, clicks and comments, I love you more than words can say and they are greatly appreciated.


	3. "I wanted to kill myself," he whispered, "and you were yelling about dirty dishes."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It should get easier after everything is over. It doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> Title: d.m, 12 world story.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Mentions of suicide.

It's quiet. It's so quiet everywhere, in every room, on every street, in every memory. All of sudden. Everything is so quiet.

Aaron is not used to quiet. Not anymore.

Everything is so cold. He should get used to it, again. It's been years between then and now but only days between _there_ and here. It might take months, who knows.

His hands have started shaking again and his throat is so dry. His eyes are so wet and sore. Everything hurts.

He packs up boxes, even though _boxes_ is exaggerating; he's been meaning to pack up those, started, and broke down after he finished about a half of the first and then he just resolved to staring at everything he used to have. Now it's all gone.

Everything is so empty.

He doesn't know what's emptier. The house or his rib cage, or, maybe, his skin. For the first time since he's been able to think there's nothing to see. No ink stains on his cheek or spots on his fingers, no dates on his neck or the palm of his hand, no words on his shoulder or arm, not a trace in sight, nothing – everything is so _empty_.

There aren't enough text books to prepare someone, _anyone_ , for this. It's the great drought. It's worse.

Every shadow haunts him, every vaguely resembling person makes him question his sanity – maybe he really lost his mind and all of this is some kind of cruel joke – every step seems like it demands all his willpower and he's afraid there's not much left of it. He can't sleep in the bed so he sleeps on a mattress in the living room.

He's staring. Into the void. Seeing nothing particular. There's nothing worth to see, anyway.

There wasn't even a note. He just went out and never came back. He kissed Aaron, like he has been doing everyday for the past 13 years and then he was out of the door and on the way to work – but no, _no_ , he wasn't going to _work_ , he never arrived there, Washington called to ask him where he was, and he went missing for exactly 12 hours and 24 minutes before they found the body.

Aaron felt nothing. Nothing when he did it. To this day he still wonders why, surely there should have been something, right? Did he miss anything? Did he not pay enough attention? Did he ignore any signs? He doesn't know. _He doesn't know._

Then, there's been the bone chilling cold. It still hasn't vanished until now. Aaron's aware of the fact that it will _never_ vanish and that's okay. That's a reminder of all the things he's lost. That's a reminder that there used to be something. Words. They always had words, he had enough for the both of them combined.

There was no note.

Aaron didn't know.

Alex is gone.

Breathing should be easier, surely, you need it to survive, after all. Breathing should be so much easier and everything is so _unfair_ and they tell him it's not his fault and maybe it isn't, maybe it's not, but it feels a lot like it _is_ – – and isn't that the point? They were supposed to be _happy_. Maybe it's just right that, if Alex wasn't happy _before_ , Aaron doesn't deserve to be happy _after_.

Happiness tastes like venom on his tongue.

Anyway.

Between the two of them they fought. Of course they did. Alex used to be too short-tempered, too full of himself, too stuck up in his stupid pride and Aaron's too indecisive, too unforgiving, too stubborn to ever agree but they always made it through. It was okay. It was good. It was so much more than just _good_. It was everything.

It's quiet without Alex' voice. It's empty without his hurricane mind. There's not enough to fill all that's left behind.

Aaron closes his eyes. He hasn't figured out what's better yet, having them open or having them closed; he sees Alex either way. He sees him all the time. It doesn't make anything more bearable.

The funeral wasn't huge but intimate. Eliza was there, of course, Angelica too, even Peggy. Lafayette flew in all the way from France, putting on a brave face, next to Washington. Hercules brought flowers. Aaron held a speech. Everyone cried except for him, but they all cried differently – Washington in silence, unmoving, like a grave, Eliza's sobs, muffled by a handkerchief, Angelica barely, head held up high, Lafayette muttering something in french under his breath but besides that and the tears nothing, Peggy crying loudly, destroyed like a battlefield, and Hercules praying. He never saw Hercules praying. He didn't know.

They put a coffin into the ground and that was it. As of now, it seems surreal. Still.

He cried on the way home and in their room. He didn't think he would have enough tears left after a week of living with the loss but apparently he did – really, what the human body can get used to – so he just let it out where no one could see him. Where no one would _know_.

Jefferson and Madison send cards, separated from each other, a week later. Aaron appreciates the sentiment, reads them once and throws them away. He doesn't need condolences.

Time is a funny concept now. It keeps ticking by even though Aaron doesn't participate.

There was no note.

Aaron didn't know.

A month later Alex is still gone. He won't come back, the words won't start appearing on his skin again and there won't be anyone to come back home to, so he takes a month off work. His boss understands. Tells him to take the time he needs, he just lost his soulmate after all. Aaron wants to argue that it's been more than a month but the harsh truth hits him as it's spoken out like that. Aaron cries for three hours when he's finally back in their room.

Angelica checks in on him once in a while, to make sure he's eating enough and doesn't throw himself to the wolves (sometimes he's close). Theo calls because her and Eliza are in Europe; there's no way any of them could've stayed after what happened and as much as she's Aaron's best friend, she's also Eliza's wife and that's just the principle of the thing. Aaron doesn't hold a grudge. Alexander was Eliza's best friend, too.

He tries to hold it together, really, puts on a show for himself and anyone who's around, he tells himself he's _fine_ , Alex won't come back and he should get over it. It's been months. But his hands haven't stopped shaking ever since, he can't hold a pen properly and the thought of ink makes him gag. One day he's in the kitchen, doing the dirty dishes, when he spots a spot of black ink on his shirt sleeve and the cup he's been holding slips out of his wet fingers onto the floor where it crashes into a thousand pieces and it's _too much_ , a horrible kind of deja vu and suddenly he can't breathe at all, the world narrowing down and spinning and then he's on the floor too, crying, sobbing, ugly and devastated like there's no tomorrow – _What is happening?_ No, no, no, this isn't happening, this is the first step right into treatment, he should get it together, Jesus fucking Christ, he can't be losing it but what is he _supposed to do_ , there's still mail arriving for Alex and that was his favourite mug some distinct part of his brain registers and _nobody fucking cares_ because he is gone, he is gone for once and for all and he won't just walk in through the front door, hair a mess and tie askew, kissing Aaron, he _won't_ , he left him, he made a choice and he left him and Aaron slices his hand open as he tries to pick up the shards of porcelain and there's blood and he wonders if there was blood when Alex killed himself, if it cracked his skull open, however he did it and Aaron doesn't even know _how_ and he doesn't even want to and – – what, what is he supposed to with Alex' clothing? When should he throw it out, should he give it to some kind of shelter or orphanage or what? He doesn't know, there's more blood on the floor and it fucking stings and he's still crying, oh God –

"Aaron? Oh my, Aaron, hey can you hear me?"

It's Angelica. Her hands are on his cheeks and he's staring at her. It's _Angelica_ , and Aaron's vision is blurry but he's clutching at her arms like they're lifelines. He can't _breathe_.

" _Angelica_ ," he breathes out, like she's a saint, voice ruined. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Alex is gone and nothing fucking matters at all.

"I'm here, hey, I'm here, Aaron," she whispers. Then, she hugs him close to her chest and Aaron can hear her heart. His breathing is too fast. Irregular. He hasn't stopped crying. He doesn't know how.

He can't do this.

"Hey, c'mon, breathe with me, alright, shhh," she says and her voice is so soft. A caress. Aaron tries.

Time goes by. It always does.

Aaron falls asleep.

In his dream, he's in their kitchen, the sunlight gleaming in and Alex is already sitting at his usual place on their kitchen table. He looks young, younger than Aaron can remember him, as young as when they just met each other, and he's smiling. The one smile that was an honour to receive; beautiful, open and unguarded. There's a cup of coffee next to him and another one on the kitchen isle, their favourite cups – Aaron's a dark purple one with golden flowers, a gift from Theo; Alex' a white cup with the words _'I only work well after midnight'_ written on it, a gift for his 30th birthday by Aaron. It's impossible for the younger Alex to have this cup but this Alex has it and it's enough. It doesn't really matter anyway.

Aaron can't help but smile, too.

"Morning babe," Alex says, a little rough and very low and it's. Huh. Aaron forgot how it feels like. It's really nice.

"Slept well?" he responds, and Alex grins lazily.

"Always do with you by my side."

Aaron chuckles. It's not funny but somehow still charming which, honestly, describes Alex more than just well.

"Marry me?" Alex asks then and Aaron's head whips up. Alex is smiling. There are dried ink stains on his face. Beautiful. So beautiful. Aaron wants to love him forever.

"Of course."

When he wakes up, it's dark outside. He's in his bed. Angelica is sleeping in the armchair closest to the mattress, curled up under a blanket.

There was no note.

Aaron didn't know.

Alex is still gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.
> 
> In case you were wondering why John wasn't there just take a second to remember what happened to John in real life and in the musical. I'm sorry.
> 
> This is by no means the end of this work, just in case you were wondering. Thank you for all the lovely words, the bookmarks, the kudos, the hits, I'm so grateful. It will get lighter after this.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on my tumblr henribrl.


End file.
